It’s been about 25 years since I’ve eaten an Easter egg. Australian chocolate isn’t the best so Mum would hide a packet of crumpets for me instead. Coming from an agnostic family, I never even knew the meaning behind the egg. That all changed over the past weekend, living with my adopted Lebanese family.
I ate my usual double breakfast before anyone else woke up on Sunday morning, then had to find room for boiled eggs when they did rise. But before I could eat the egg, I had to try my egg against Dave’s mum’s hitting the point of mine against the point of hers. My egg cracked, leaving her the champion. She proceded to beat the rest of the family and told me that, had it been Lebanon, she’d be walking down the street challenging all the neighbours. The winner of each bout would get to keep the damaged egg, so it was a big deal to choose the best egg.
But what’s the egg all about? Apparently, it’s the symbol of rebirth only recently made commercial with chocolate. No one knew how the bunny came into it.
Not long after breakfast, Dave’s sister arrived with her little family, bearing gifts of European chocolate for us all. Dave then brought out a large egg each, again of European chocolate. And finally, his mum disappeared to return with a huge basket full of chocolate eggs and rabbits of all varieties, allowing us each to choose one. The rest were to be kept for visitors. I wonder if the European catholics make Easter such an extravagant occasion.